


Mission Debrief

by remiges



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Slapping, Dehumanization, Desperation, Face-Fucking, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Sadism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10342662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "Don't worry," Jack says, and his voice is soft, sickly sweet like he's talking to a pet instead of a machine with more kills on record than their entire unit combined. "I'll take care of you."





	

The mission goes off without a hitch, except for how Jack refuses to let the asset go to the bathroom. In the convoy heading back, the asset squirms in its seat, and Jack's eyes darken as he tracks the movement. Oh, Brock thinks. It's going to be one of those days.

The asset maimed a junior agent one time—nearly bit his junk off—but Brock thinks that's probably part of the appeal. Jack gets off on the danger, the thrill of adrenaline from owning something that could so easily do him harm. For Brock, he's rather attached to his dick and would like to keep it all in one piece.

Still, there's a difference between not wanting to fuck something he's seen crush a man's skull with a metal hand, and not being part of the fun at all.

"Yeah," Brock says in response to Jack's questioning look, and feels the anticipation curl tighter in his stomach as they get closer to base.

"Aw," Jack croons when they're finally in the old decontamination shower room, the one no one uses because it always smells faintly of mold. The asset has been stripped of its clothes, and it's got a hand clutching its crotch, shifting its weight from side to side. Brock wound't be surprised if it crossed its legs next.

They've got time before anyone comes looking for them, so Brock leans against the wall and gets ready for the show. For all that Jack's quiet in every other facet of his life, he sure likes to talk when they do this.

"Don't worry," Jack says, and his voice is soft, sickly sweet like he's talking to a pet instead of a machine with more kills on record than their entire unit combined. "I'll take care of you."

He wraps his hand around the asset's shoulder, close enough that if it wanted to it could land a blow hard enough to shatter Jack's ribs, and there'd be nothing anyone could do except mop up the blood.

The asset just stands there with its dead eyes fixed on something in the distance. This is why Brock doesn't fuck it—too fucking creepy.

"Here, why don't I give you something else to focus on," Jack says, unzipping the fly of his pants with one hand. Brock can see the muscles stand out in his arm as he tries to push the asset down, but it doesn't move. "C'mere," he says, tone still soft. Then, when it continues to hesitate, "No. Come on."

Brock pushes himself off the wall and kicks the back of the asset's knee, hard enough that it buckles and the asset ends up on the floor. That seems to flip it back to whatever programing it's used to, and suddenly the asset is pliant in Jack's hands.

"There, that's it. That wasn't too hard, now was it?" Jack's got his pants down, and he's already half hard, the bulge visible from where Brock's standing. He pulls the asset closer and taps the bottom of its jaw until it opens. The asset's eyes are flicking between Jack's face and his dick, like it's trying to figure out what to do, or if it's allowed to do it.

Jack frees himself from his underwear and presses the head of his dick across the asset's lips, hardening as he does so. "Let's see that pretty tongue," he says, and the asset follow his command, the pink tip slipping out. It licks without having to be told, the motion probably ingrained on a cellular level from all the fucking it's received over the years.

Brock doesn't understand how anyone can stick their dick into that thing _bare_ , but it's not his ass that's going to be whining about herpes in a month.

Jack slides forward, and the asset bobs its head, taking him in with a wet sound. " _Good_ boy," Jack says, and slides in deeper. He lets the asset blow him for a bit, the gargled sounds echoing strangely off the tile, and then Jack gets serious.

He threads his hand in the asset's hair, all mussed from wearing the mask in the heat, and pushes down when the asset isn't ready for it. It makes a wet sound, a deep choking sort of gag, but Jack just moans and pushes it down further. The asset makes a move like its hands are going to come up and push Jack away, but before Brock can do anything, they still again.

Jack pulls the asset off with a groan. It sucks in a breath, loud in the quiet of the room. Brock's breathing is picking up, and Jack forces the asset's head back down.

It gags for real, back convulsing. Jack strokes one hand across its face, cupping his palm around the curve of its cheek.

With the other, he pinches the asset's nose shut.

They stay like that for a long moment, the asset's hands fisted on its thighs, Jack buried to the root with something heated in his eyes. Brock's own dick is fully hard now, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper, and he edges it down with a sigh of relief.

There's the wet sound of the asset swallowing, and Brock knows exactly how long it can hold its breath, but he waits for the asset to make a move. That or pass out, which happened once before.

Then Jack says, "Hey," sharp, and pulls back, his dick slipping out of its mouth with a wet pop before he backhands the asset. Its head snaps back from the force of the blow. "What'd I say about teeth?"

The asset spits blood on the tile. Its hips are moving in little circles, like if it stays still it'll piss itself. There are tears in its eyes now, maybe from the blowjob, maybe from the humiliation. If it can feel humiliation, Brock thinks, and rubs himself through his pants.

Jack ruins the moment, like always. "Oh baby, I know it was an accident," he says, running his thumb across the asset's lip where he'd split it, smearing the blood across the curve of its jaw. The asset turns into his touch, forehead pressing momentarily against Jack's hip before it tries to get Jack's dick back in its mouth, but Jack grabs a handful of hair and keeps it back.

"But you know that's not an excuse," he says, shaking the asset's head back and forth in a parody of a nod. "You gonna make it up to me?"

The asset looks up at Jack and doesn't move. Brock can tell the second Jack tightens his grip on the asset's hair, because his voice is hard when he asks, "You need me to get Brock?"

Whatever Jack sees in its eyes must be answer enough, because he says, "That's what I thought. Now, why don't you make it up to me real good? Here," he reaches into a pocket with his free hand. "I got something to help you."

He pulls out a spider gag, and Brock rolls his eyes. Trust Jack to carry around a sex toy on a mission.

Jack isn't even looking in Brock's direction, too preoccupied with fitting the thing on the asset. Jack thinks for a minute they're going to have a problem, the asset jerking its head back from the gag, but Jack hits it again, hard enough to stun.

The asset kneels there on the cold tile as Jack pries its mouth open, situating the gag and buckling it on, then stroking his fingers along its tongue. The asset retches, and Jack jams his fingers deeper like the sadist he is.

This is what the junior agent should have done, Brock thinks as the asset drools all over itself and Jack face fucks it, using its hair as leverage. Don't even give it the chance to bite anything important

Brock notices that the asset's got its hands cupping its dick now, heel pressed in like the right amount of pressure can stop it from letting loose on the floor. Brock would pity it, if he weren't so turned on.

"Eyes on me," Jack pants as he gets closer to coming, breath speeding up and thrusts becoming erratic. Brock's eyes linger on the sweat collecting on Jack's temples, before fixing back on the asset.

"Eyes," Jack repeats, but the asset is either feeling disobedient or is too lost in its head to obey.

Jack reaches down and pries the asset's eyelids open, keeping a firm grip as he thrusts in deep and stays there, hips hunching forward in jolts like he's trying to drill into the asset's skull. He comes with a deep groan and stays like that, buried in the asset's throat for a long span of seconds.

The asset chokes when Jack finally pulls out, spitting up a string of bile, face covered in spit and snot, eyes streaming from their rough treatment.

"You did so well for me," Jack purrs, pulling the asset closer to wipe his dick off on its hair. "Now I've got something for you."

He puts his dick back and zips up, then reaches into another pocket and pulls out a speculum, an honest-to-god speculum. Brock muffles his laugh in a cough, but Jack still glares. He's always concocting overly elaborate scenes instead of just fucking the damn thing.

"Gotta make sure you're all healthy," Jack says, focused again on the asset. It's eyeing the metal beak of the speculum with something that Brock would call trepidation on anyone else.

"C'mon, you don't want to be bad now. Turn around, I've just gotta take a peak," Jack says, and the asset shuffles around to face the wall.

Brock can't see its face from this angle, but he can see the way its muscles tense as Jack starts forcing the thing in without any lube. The asset drops its head forward, and Jack grabs its shoulder—the regular one—as he pulls the asset back onto the metal.

"There," Jack he says when the instrument is seated inside. Brock slides his hand into his pants and starts stroking himself as Jack turns the screw on the speculum, opening the asset wider as it whimpers.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he asks. "It's for your own good. I just gotta make sure it all looks good down there."

Jack pulls the asset's hips up so he has a better view, and Brock leans closer so he can see the asset's twitching hole, forced open and straining. Jack strokes a finger around the rim before dipping in, and Brock bites his lip.

The light isn't great in the room, but Brock knows the flesh inside is red. Last time they'd used the speculum, Jack had gotten out a flashlight and illuminated everything he could, like every inch of the asset was his to own.

The asset is shaking, maybe remembering the same time—the sense memory, if not the actual experience. "Baby," Jack croons, "it's not coming out, so you might as well stop crying about it. You don't want to be a bad boy, now do you?"

"Please," it says, or at least tries to form the word around the gag. It's practically vibrating with the need to piss, sweat standing out on its neck and desperation clear in every line of its body. Brock knows what's coming, and he tightens his grip on the upstroke, dick slick with precome.

When Jack kicks the asset, he doesn't even have to aim. The shock of the blow does all the work.

With a noise like a wounded animal, the asset starts peeing, the acidic stench rising off the tiles. It's pawing at its dick, eyes watering again as it tries to stop the stream, but all that accomplishes is an ever-widening puddle of urine.

"Look at you, look at what you've done," Jack snarls, shoving the asset so it hits its hands and knees, palms connecting with the tile with a wet slapping sound. Even held open at both ends, it's expression is almost controlled despite the mess its face is in. But there's something in the eyes, Brock thinks. There's still some spark there.

"Bad boy, making a mess like that," Jack says, vicious. He grabs the asset by the hair and pulls back until it's forced back to its knees, still peeing in fits and starts. The urine spatters across the tile, and Brock fixes his eyes on the sight, the asset's betrayal sweet as honey, and jerks himself faster.

"Bad," Jack repeats, and then bends before bringing his hand down on the asset's exposed dick, the slap ringing off the tile. Brock sees a dribble of piss go flying as the asset wails, and then Jack hits him again, and Brock comes in a rush that feels like getting blindsided.

When Brock opens his eyes again, the asset is curled over, trying to protect itself, garbling out syllables around the gag as Jack lands a series of blows while the asset tries to cover its dick.

"Hands off," Jack barks, and the asset obeys without hesitation, body still trying to angle itself away. Jack reaches down and twists the assets balls, pulling them towards himself as the asset makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a whine, the pitch rising as Jack pulls.

Brock tucks himself away as Jack lets go and aims another kick at the asset.

"Now I have to clean this up," Jack says, like he didn't plan it this way. There's a reason they're in the old decontamination room, and it's not for the décor.

Jack detaches one of the showerheads from the wall, and Brock turns the water on. The asset cowers, but there's no place to go to escape the stream. Jack directs the water at it, ignoring the way the asset flinches when he aims at where the speculum is still holding it open.

"Hey, don't cry," Jack tells it, voice soft again even as his hand never wavers. "You brought this on yourself." He aims the spray at its face, and the asset chokes on the water. Jack laughs, tousles the asset's wet hair so the strands cling to its face and obscure its vision, then rinses the mess the asset had made down the drain.

When the asset starts shivering in earnest, a faint tinge of blue rising to its lips, Brock puts an end to everything by turning off the water. It won't do to get the asset sick, and they should have reported back to the techs half an hour ago.

"Come on," he says, and Jack looks mutinous for a moment, like he's going to put up a fuss, but he backs down without a fight.

"Had a little accident," Brock says when they return the asset to the techs. The asset is dripping on the floor, shivering. It would have been more trouble than it was worth to put its clothes back on, so they walked it back to the techs naked.

Its gear had gotten caught in the hosing down, if not any urine, so Jack is carrying the clothes waded up in a ball held away from his body. Serves him right, Brock thinks. It was his damn fault the things were soaked in the first place.

"Jesus," mutters one of the techs. "It peed itself again? That's the third time this month." The look of disgust is clear on her face, and she purses her lips. "Do we need to get someone to toilet train this thing?"

Jack smiles, just a quirk of his lips, and Brock resists the urge to roll his eyes. The asset stands there and drips, seemingly impassive to the humiliation, its dead eyes fixed on something in the distance, something that only it can see.

Brock represses a shudder. Like he said, fucking creepy.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)


End file.
